Oscar Pedersen

As one discovers and rediscovers Ford’s films, each gesture, each flower, carries the memory of those that came before and the anticipation of those yet to come. Every act is imbued with the weight of it all. Ford, of course, never emphasizes such symbols too strongly. Instead, he allows them to unfold naturally and with sincerity: Shirley Temple putting a few handpicked flowers in Victor McLaglen’s hand in Wee Willie Winkie (1937), the title card in Just Pals (1920) that reads “Will you give him these flowers so he’ll know that I am thinkin’ of him?”, John Wayne declaring his love by handing a bouquet to Maureen O’Hara in Rio Grande (1950) or offering a single yellow buttercup flower in The Quiet Man (1952). Ford is romantic, and that’s his strength.

These filmmakers were all ciné-adventurers. Which is not the same as conquerors. It was never about claiming others’ space but carving out a new one for themselves. Modestly and self-assuredly, they were each content with mapping the fictions of a single street or two. This way, they managed “to grant a filmic dignity to that which didn’t have any,” as Serge Daney once remarked about the true meaning of realism. They created images where none existed. Therein lie their politics.

From the time you are born, your eyes are open, and you see everything for the first time. The older you get, the less you are surprised by things. But things have not changed, it is just you who have changed, things can still be very surprising. It is such a pity that we are losing the perception of how surprising things are. I believe that in Huillet and Straub’s films, you are given back the feeling of a surprising world. To see the things that are in front of you becomes completely incredible.